


With thee in the thirst

by m_madeleine



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Fusion, Cousin Incest, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Fix-It, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Multi, OT3, Oral Sex, Pining, Repression, Sharing a Bed, Tatooine (Star Wars), That's Not How The Force Works, Threesome - F/M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26759074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_madeleine/pseuds/m_madeleine
Summary: Tybalt tracks Romeo and Julia to Tatooine. Forced to stay by a sand storm, he has to come to terms with, well. Everything.
Relationships: Juliet Capulet/Romeo Montague/Tybalt, Júlia Capulet/Rómeó Montague, Júlia Capulet/Tybalt, Romeo Montague/Tybalt
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2020





	With thee in the thirst

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Shield and Armour](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6190459) by [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen). 
  * Inspired by [Signal Disruption](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6593899) by [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen). 



> Title from Emily Dickinson's "With Thee, in the Desert". Many thanks to Birbdeath for help with Star Wars facts!
> 
> Due credit to my dear recip Carmarthen's own Star Wars fusions, which you can find linked above.

Tybalt hates Romeo. Whereever he sees him, whether sitting with his friends in one of floating gardens or wrecking havoc at a reception in the governor’s skyhook, or even just walking down the streets, Romeo never fails to look like trouble — though that statement might be redundant. It would be enough to say he was a Montague.

Tybalt hates Romeo, but once, at the edge of another one of the altercations that no doubt kept the governor sleepless at night, Romeo had let himself be chased out of sight, and then turned the tables, crowded Tybalt up against a wall.

Tybalt hates Romeo, but when Romeo bit down on his lip, kept it between his teeth as he worked Tybalt’s prick, Tybalt could do nothing but pant into his mouth. When he spilled across Romeo’s hand and Romeo winked and simply walked away, as if nothing had happened, Tybalt told himself that this was just the kind of thing Romeo did. He didn’t have to consider what exactly it meant. It was just the way Romeo was. It meant nothing. 

Thinking of himself, then, it was comforting. Thinking of Julia, now, it’s nothing but rage. It would be bad enough if the talk in the streets were just slander, ruining her reputation for nothing, but no. Tybalt knows what Romeo’s like, how many people he’s known. And how it’s a game for him now, apparently, seeing how many Capulets he can make into notches on his bedpost. 

When he goes to look for him, Tybalt takes his vibroblade, because he fantasizes about carving into him the same way. Also because blasters are outlawed to carry openly for civilians now – one of the governor’s exasperated measures. Blades are harder to control, but he likely would attempt to, after that fight almost ending in death but for coincidences, whims of fate. 

Julia is already gone by the time Tybalt is brought back to their residence, though among the fuss kicked up by his critical condition, no one notices. His uncle sends out servants as soon as they do, traversing the city on the fastest speeders available, almost overrunning the Montague residence, until Lady Montague comes out screaming that her son is nowhere to be found either. By the time Tybalt wakes up from the healing sleep, everyone is sure they must have managed to leave the planet, a faint trail leading to the long distance merchant vessels. Tybalt takes a look at their residence is disarray, spilled tears, spilled wine; even if his aunt hadn’t told him, he would have known what to do. 

***

He took the smallest starfighter, hoping it would help him stay incognito, one of their many R2 units plotting his course for him. Though Tybalt has nothing but the vaguest information, it doesn’t take much questioning to expand on it. People don’t tend to like him, he’s always known that, but there are few problems credits can’t fix. He spends freely; his uncle had pushed them onto him, pale and for once decisive. Tybalt’s enquiries leads him to smugglers, criminals, the worst kind of people. The thought that this scoundrel got Julia — who has barely left the palace, certainly never on her own — out there, sleeping on freight ships with gamblers and rebels— Tybalt’s mind focuses on the two of them, like the bullseye on a target; he keeps on thinking of them until they become two sharp dark silhouettes, faraway and inhuman and wrong, until he sees them in the negative space between the stars, walking away, laughing at him, at their home, their city, their planet, everyone. 

He hasn’t slept when he lands on Tatooine. The hot dry air hits him like a wall, the dustiness makes his throat hurt, and with a start he realizes how tired he is. But he doesn’t sleep there either, only stops for fuel, and continues his search. Very few people speak directly, though bribes are cheap, but he walks between the tents until talk of a couple of off-worlders passing through reaches him anyway. The trail of hushed gossip leads out into the desert and Tybalt doesn’t even have the strength to boggle at a kind of landscape he has never seen before. He flies as quietly as possible past dune over dune, overrides the R2 unit when it starts chirping his vitals at him. He’s had treatment for his condition. He can take it. 

At last, he circles the farmstead he heard described and descends, leaving the fighter behind a dune, so as not to alert them. Walking on sand is harder than he expected and at night, the desert is bitterly cold. He hadn’t expected that either. He’s shaking and he less walks than slips down the dunes, sand getting into his boots, scratching his palms. The farm looks like a small sandy dome, not much like a house at all. But then Romeo appears in the doorway, billowing white shirt almost glowing in the dark and in his hand, Tybalt can make out the sharp line of a rifle. Tybalt brandishes his blaster. 

He could have shot from where he was standing, but he wants Romeo to see him, to look him in the eyes. He keeps walking, slipping down the dune. He will realize, later, that when Romeo first saw him, he dropped the rifle. At this moment, he doesn’t. There’s only Romeo’s pale, scared face, and the sharp line of the barrel between them as he comes to a stand.

Tybalt feels his knees shaking; his hand is frozen on the trigger. Nonsensically, Romeo takes a step towards him and nonsensically, he lets him come closer. And then Romeo’s fingers are around his wrist, on his waist, on his shoulder, holding him, pulling him. He must’ve gotten weaker than he thought, because he doesn’t know anything to counter it, not even when his back hits the wall, and he feels weak pulses, of anger, of arousal, thinking of other places, other times. But his fingers have become a vice around the blaster, refusing to give it up. Trying to persuade himself to shoot, after all. 

But then, a familiar voice shouts, there’s a flash of white — and there’s Julia inserting herself between them, crowding up into his space, and Tybalt thinks of stray fire, red blooming on white— he drops the gun. He falls, himself. 

***  
During the night, he slips in and out of consciousness several times, not registering much other than scents — dry earthiness and then familiar, floral, painful, comforting all at once. They chase him through confusing dreams and all the way until he wakes up, in a large bed, among coarse sheets. He doesn’t quite understand, until he turns to see two pillows other than his, and realizes that what he sensed were the scents of Romeo and Julia mixing. He blinks and looks around at the room, slightly domed, with a skylight in the ceiling, bizzare rough walls, sparse furniture. His jacket is draped over a chair and his boots stand neatly next to the bed; only his blaster is nowhere in sight. He pulls on his boots, stands carefully — he doesn’t get seizures anymore, but he was still stupid, overexerting himself that much. He feels weak; his head is still swimming a little — but he can stand. 

He walks out into a hallway which goes nowhere except towards steep stairs that more resemble a ladder cut into the wall, and he realizes he’s underground. Upstairs, there's the front door, a simple round doorway, and that same rifle propped up against the wall next to it. In the daylight Tybalt recognizes it as a farmer’s weapon, simplistic, rusty, barely good for one shot. He hovers for a moment, until sounds lead him to another doorway which leads into a kind of inner yard. 

There’s a large, round table, and Julia sitting at it. Romeo is pouring caf. Julia’s hair is coming unbraided. Romeo’s is sticking up. Tybalt remembers the scent stuck in the pillows and shudders. They’re different like this. He should’ve done it yesterday. It’s harder to face them now. He had been trying to stay quiet, but the tip of his boot catches on the doorstep and he stumbles, sudden noise making them startle. Romeo whips around, doesn’t grab any weapon, but then, he doesn’t have one to grab. His knuckles just go white against the edge of the table. Julia stares at him, eyes widening, and they’re on guard — but they could’ve left him outside. They didn’t have to put him in their bed.

Tybalt falters. Stuck in the awkwardness of the moment, he’s not sure what to say, but Romeo opens his mouth — and Tybalt finds he doesn’t want to know. He can’t. They’re a target, he reminds himself — he had words rushing through his head while he was flying. He’d expected to kill Romeo before he’d get to say them, but he’d repeated, almost practised them all the same, over and over, and just why is it so hard to assemble them again now? 

“You’ve wronged— you broke the law.” He has never been the best with words, and now he’s tired and confused, and the people he put a target on took him off the floor and put him in their bed, probably because he tumbled in to faint in their arms, far from the threat he was meant to be. The words tumble awkwardly too, taste stale. “You kidnapped my cousin, you will pay, you—” 

“Tybalt.”

Julia has stood up. Romeo looks somewhat guilty, but she puts herself in front of him, between them, though softer than yesterday, reaching out— Tybalt flinches back instinctively, years of habit, _don’t let her touch you—_ She lowers her hand again, with some disappointment, but her eyes are still open and honest, and she’s trying to catch his gaze. Tybalt wouldn’t have had a problem meeting Romeo’s eyes, never has, but he avoids hers, looks at a strand curling in front of her ear, a stray freckle; anywhere but her eyes. She catches him though, pins him down with her gaze, her voice soft but firm: “I’m glad to see you alive. We weren’t sure. And now, please, stop talking about me as if I’m not there.”

*** 

They force some kind of salty broth on him, which he accepts half out of confusion, half out of actual hunger — and then Julia leads him outside, all the way outside, out of the front door and to the expanse of sand, and tells him everything. 

Tybalt had never been in favor of her marrying the governor’s kinsman; she was too young of course, like uncle had said, having only just reached the age of majority -- but truth be told, Tybalt had never wanted to see her married to anybody, though of course he knew it was only a matter of time, though of course he wasn’t really hoping— Be as it may. There are many different norms throughout the galaxy; on Verona, marriage is sacred. Not sacred enough that they would be safe there now. Not sacred enough to end the feud. But enough that Tybalt understands Romeo would not have committed if he didn’t mean it. 

Tybalt says nothing for a long time. The desert is empty and quiet and as they sit, side by side on the sand, he is conscious to a fault of Julia’s presence. The air between them always brims with tension if he doesn’t watch it and he’s watched it ever since he realized they were sharing those powers, this curse, hers more powerful than his. He doesn’t think anyone else knows. He hopes not. The only person who spent enough time with them both to tell, maybe—

“Nurse-” Julia starts at the same moment, breaks off. Tybalt breathes out. He has to remember to shield himself better. Julia has never been in the habit of forcing herself into his thoughts — or she would have long turned from him completely, he is sure— but the connection is there, and sometimes, it resonates unwittingly. 

“She’s heartbroken,” Tybalt says quietly. Julia chews on her lip, brows drawn. Stays silent. She said Nurse knew about the marriage, though they hadn’t told her they were fleeing. Tybalt hummed. Nurse’s tears had seemed genuine to him even then (and that too had fueled his rage; she may have been Julia’s nurse, not his, and yet). 

Tybalt knows his aunt would tell him to kill Romeo right there. He also knows Julia would hate him forever if he did. And he also wonders if his aunt would rather have Julia dead as well than married to a Montague. Tybalt has carried the feud as much as anyone. But that, right here, he decides, is a place he could never go. Footsteps whisper behind them in the sand; Romeo is a different question. Tybalt imagines killing him. Finding his blade, later, cutting into him, making blood soak into his shirt, drip from his lips. He shakes his head, to himself, nonsensically. He feels exhausted still, and empty. He doesn’t know. 

“We should bring in your fighter. It’ll be scavenged for parts otherwise.”

Tybalt could say he was planning to leave anyway. He could do it, though he isn’t sure where he would go, and why. But he is tired. And maybe, he tells himself, maybe he’ll find courage and opportunity yet. He shrugs. 

“I’ll look for some shovels,” Julia says, getting up, dusting off her hands, as if she’s been a Tatooine farmer for years. “It’s bound to be covered in sand by now.”

Tybalt stands up as well. Romeo catches him by the shoulder and Tybalt seizes up, adrenaline rushing through him, but Romeo only gives him a hard look.

“Mercutio-“, Romeo asks, pleads. 

“He lives,” Tybalt says curtly after a second, when he understands what Romeo is asking. Romeo breathes a relieved sigh in response. Tybalt has never had friends like Romeo did, practically conjoined, going wherever the other goes. He would have been hard-pressed to imagine, before, Romeo finding something that could make him leave a friend behind, without even knowing if he was alive; finds himself almost impressed with his commitment to Julia. Maybe, if she had to marry anyone at all, Romeo wasn’t the worst choice. 

Romeo meets his eyes and Tybalt realizes he’s been looking at him. He turns away. 

***

They work on the ship together, digging it out partially, Romeo and Julia letting Tybalt do the least of the work — he’d bristle, if he didn’t realize his limits as well. It’s Romeo who climbs inside and flies it down, closer to the farm. There, he takes the R2 unit out as well. It chirps, booting up, and Tybalt feels bad about leaving it out there for some reason. Even if it’s only a droid. “Vee-3!” Julia exclaims, patting it. It chirps joyfully at her. Tybalt blinks. He’s never cared to distinguish R2-V3 from R2-C5, or any of the others. 

The farm only has shelter space enough for a small speeder, so they leave the fighter outside, covering it with a protective tarp Romeo’s unearthed from somewhere. Tybalt helps Julia pull it down on all sides, working silently, finding peace in laying words at rest for now. He doesn’t even say anything when the tarp starts smoothing out just a little too soon before Julia touches it. It’s a small thing. No one saw it. He can pretend he didn’t, either. 

“It might storm,” Romeo says, after they’re finished. “Should probably go around to check, the farmers wouldn’t be happy if we missed anything. They had to travel, left us looking after the place,” he adds at Tybalt’s inquisitive look. “For room and board.”

“They trusted you?” Tybalt asks, uncomfortably aware this was probably also supposed to be shelter from prying eyes, and that it’s _him_ who’s the prying eyes. That this is probably exactly what Romeo and Julia were afraid of, why they fled to some hole in the ground, in the middle of the desert. But Romeo only shrugs. 

“Seems like it. Don’t have much of anything valuable to sell or steal anyway, they said.”

Tybalt can’t help but snort, sure that no one would ever leave their entire livelihood for him to watch over, sure also that no one would to Romeo if they knew him better and had seen his escapades — or watched Julia causing havoc as a little girl. She seems quite responsible now though, reading measures for storm-proofing off a list — sliding shut entry points, bringing in tools, checking if the environmental systems for the house are in order. 

By the time they’re done, the sun cycle is almost ending and they retreat inside. Tybalt barely has the energy to shovel some food into himself, nutritional packages Romeo dissolved in a pot on the stove, a chunkier version of the broth they fed him before. Verona goes through bouts of supply shortages, but there is always fruit, at least. Tybalt feels a brief wave of resentment at Romeo, but for whom he and Julia could be home at the dinner table now — though then, of course, he remembers that dinners at home haven’t been what they were in a long time now, all awkward silences in between Lady Capulet’s drunken rants, and Tybalt trying to avoid Julia’s gaze, so he pushes the thought away. Instead, he thinks of how he’s eating with people he was ready to kill just yesterday and how Romeo could kill him still. Should, probably. Maybe he will, maybe they’re only biding their time, same as him. _I love you more than you know,_ he remembers Romeo saying, thinks of Julia coming towards him, open hands— he can’t think about that now. 

Then, of course, he thinks back to the morning instead, the third pillow for him, his jacket and boots carefully tucked away — He pushes his spoon through the porridge. Maybe it was a spontaneous decision. Maybe they will suggest something else come nightfall. Yet as it darkens and all three of them start intermittently yawning, he follows them downstairs, and they lead him right back into their bedroom, with the rough sheets and the pillows Romeo is shaking out, while Julia takes nightclothes out of a closet, a perfect picture of domesticity. 

“Is there no other bed?” Tybalt asks stupidly, clenching his jaw, hating that he has to voice it at all. 

Romeo gives him a cursory look. 

“No, the system conserves energy, only heats the one room at night. And the fresher, of course. But you’re welcome in ours.”

Tybalt chews his lip.

“I will sleep in the fighter,” he mutters, but Julia shoots him a look. 

“Cousin, don’t be ridiculous, it’s not safe. We don’t mind, truly.”

Tybalt bites his tongue on the gloomy reply that perhaps he minds. That he doesn’t care for being safe either, that he doesn’t much care for waking up the next morning and facing his mission going awry, having to decide again what to do. But the day has caught up with him. He opts for the fresher first, curses when he realizes he has no other clothes. Pulling his worn shirt back on to walk to bed is humiliating, though almost more so when he realizes Julia and Romeo pay him almost no mind, caught up in their own nightly rituals. 

There is a fresh shirt laid out on the bed for him, roughly woven but clean and warm, and he pulls it on after the two of them disappear into the fresher. He remembers his vibroblade then, finds it in the inside pocket of his jacket, exactly where he’d left it, and slips it under his pillow, lays down on his side and faces the opposite wall. After a while, he hears footsteps, feels the bed dip. He can smell Romeo close to him. Tybalt curls his fingers around the sheath of his blade and closes his eyes. 

***

If he’d been hoping to reconsider anything the next morning, he doesn’t have the opportunity, because he wakes from Romeo shaking him. 

“What-” Tybalt mutters groggily. 

“There’s a storm warning and a moisture vaporator’s malfunctioning, come on!”

Tybalt sits up, takes the cup of caf Romeo is handing him. Listens to the wind, audible even underground. He frowns at the metallic taste on his tongue, but welcomes the hit of caffeine, the warmth in his hands. He feels better. In a way, at least. 

The strange contraptions he walked past that night and barely registered in his state were the moisture vaporators, it turns out. The troubling one is further away, so Julia brings out the speeder, old rusty thing that barely deserves the name. Against all odds, it does hold three people, as well as V3. (The farmers have repair droids of their own, but they’re obviously outclassed. Tybalt finds himself wanting to ask if it’s not a bit below its paygrade, repairing moisture machines as an astromech droid, but that wouldn’t be a kind of conversation Tybalt’s ever had with a droid, so why start now?) Tybalt’s grateful for Romeo’s broad back between him and Julia. Maybe a little too much. He holds on, thankful that he has to, to prevent falling off and dying, and not feeling like he has to interrogate any kind of enjoyment of its warmth and solidness. 

It’s an unexpectedly tall machine and Romeo hoists Julia up on his shoulders to inspect it. In sensible boots, wrapped in coarse fabric, she looks the part of the desert farmer, and Tybalt swallows some bitterness, remembering her in sandals and floating gauze dresses. And then banishes the thought from his mind, as he’s done so often, routinely now. 

She looks serious, as she opens up the apparatus, frowns at the machinery inside, and Tybalt boggles for a moment because he can't think where she would have gotten the knowledge how to repair such a thing — at least until she bursts out laughing, shaking her head, gasping “I have _no_ idea." Romeo chuckles as well, and Tybalt almost joins in, because it is really quite absurd to think any of them would know how to fix a moisture vaporator. 

R2-V3 rolls up obediently when called and Tybalt almost offers to hoist it up, but then Julia makes a soft gesture with her hand and it begins to rise, a little shakily, but steadily. Tybalt’s stomach turns, hair standing on his neck, fingers curling into palms — but there’s no one here to see. Nothing but the dunes going on for miles and miles. He clamps down on the immediate panic, forces himself to calm down. Still — it’s the most he’s ever seen her able to do. She must have practiced. Since they fled? Or for years now, in the safety of her bedroom, in secluded corners of their gardens, hiding as soon as anyone — Tybalt — came in sight, in the same way she became a young woman when he wasn’t looking and climbed out the window to flee off planet — how much has he missed?

Romeo only smiles lightly, watching her. Of course, he knows, of course he accepts it. Tybalt feels something seize up in him, remembering chiding her. Has some kind of ridiculous thought that of course, Julia chose the man who didn’t— though Tybalt knows he was never a real option at all. 

V3 goes to work on the filtration mechanism, beeping intermittently. Julia has it propped up with a hand now, but it’d be too heavy to hold this way, so she must still be helping out with the Force. She doesn’t even look at Tybalt. She doesn’t need his permission. She never has. Tybalt turns away and leans against the speeder, watching the neverending sand dunes until the repairs are done. 

*** 

By the evening, the sand storm is in full swing and Tybalt almost heaves a sigh of relief. For better or worse, leaving is not his decision anymore. He barely sleeps that night, listening to the wind howling, echoing even this far below ground, and the barely audible soft breaths of his bedfellows — then falls asleep at the crack of dawn (or what he guesses counts for it, when the storm has rendered the skylight barely useful, letting through a hint of orange and pink through the sand). 

The kitchen window is durable enough not to have been boarded up either, and Romeo points him towards it, when he finally comes upstairs at noon. Sand beats against the enforced glass in erratic waves, similar to sharp rain, maybe very fine hail, rendering the outside completely unrecognizable. Tybalt watches, for a long time, until Romeo and Julia have retreated downstairs again. Alone, he fishes out his communicator, which has no reception as expected. Deep inside, he knows maybe V3 could modify it, but well. He cannot imagine what he would have to say anyway.

And then the days begin to bleed into each other. There is not much to do during a sandstorm, Tybalt finds. They cook caf, porridge, griddle cakes. They don’t talk of Verona. They find strange sources of amusement, like when V3 riggs an ancient radio, and it receives spotty, crunchy transmissions from the nearest city, miles away, strange music Julia and Romeo almost begin dancing to, before it cuts out again. Tybalt tries to keep his distance but there is not much space to hide here and so they brush up against each other constantly. They play Pazaak at the tiny kitchen table, knees resting against each other. Tybalt loses, again and again, his self-depreciation comments making them both laugh, perplexing him, and perplexing him even more when Romeo throws an arm around his shoulder and presses him close briefly. Tybalt’s stomach lurches; but then he reminds himself that it’s not much different from how Romeo deals with his friends back home. Which, in itself, hits deeply. He’d held him at gunpoint just days ago. _I love you more than you know—_ Tybalt shrugs it off, brushes it off, resolves to spend the next game thinking more about his cards than being caught in the double bind of trying not to look and yet looking too much. 

In an unsettling way, more and more often he catches Julia looking back at him, curiously. It’s uncomfortable, being caught on the other side for once, reminding him too much of the way he used to sneak glances. They hadn’t been interacting much, in truth, over the years when he stopped trusting himself around her, in so many ways, yet unable to stay away either, watching her, when he dared from across long dinner tables, busy social functions, from the windows above the garden. 

In the evenings, Tybalt clenches his teeth and stares at the wall, knowing them both undressing behind his back, trying not to think much about it, wishing he were able to fall asleep sooner, but ending up listening to their breathing night after night, until he can pick it up even despite the wind, starts to distinguish them from each other. 

He is lying awake again, when he hears a hitch of breath and knows someone else is, too. He hadn’t turned around tonight either. He doesn’t know who’s closest to him. The bed creaks with movement and a waft of floral scent hits him. He flinches, even before she speaks.

“Tybalt.” Her voice is low. 

“What?” he whispers back. She’s silent but he feels a quick touch at his shoulder that makes him turn. She’s there just smiling at him, face resting in her palm. 

“Nothing,” she whispers. He snorts. It’s childish, in a way, but she hasn’t been a child in a long time, as long as he’d spent more time looking at her picture in his locket than at her, almost forgetting what she looked like. And because it’s dark, only just light enough to try, he lets himself look now, the rounded shape of her eyes, her fine brows, her imperfectly perfect nose — and finds her similar yet different, and more than the sum of her parts. 

He feels a whisper in his mind, a nudge. She’d do that sometimes and for years, he’d ignore it, square up against it, waking up with his jaw locked up from gritted teeth. But now, a sworn enemy is sleeping peacefully only a couple of feet away from him, and outside, the wind is whirling the ground up into the air, changing everything. Tybalt lets go then, just a little. Nothing much. There are no words, no questions, not even any particular emotions. Just the feeling of an open link, the Force flowing between them. It’s been the source of many disturbances for him, it feels strange to experience it so peacefully. Julia smiles at him, and he almost smiles back, feeling strangely light, connected, comforted — at least until he remembers himself and all the things Julia can’t know. She’s always been better with the Force than him, but this, at least, he knows how to do. He shuts down, stops the flow abruptly, turning away, praying she didn’t manage to get any deeper without him being able to tell, didn’t feel anything— 

A slight echo of her perplexion reaches him, but she doesn’t probe. He holds his breath, waiting for her to turn back as well, towards Romeo, go back to sleep. She never does. In the oppressive silence, both knowing neither are sleeping, both listening to each other, pretending not to, Tybalt isn’t sure if it was worth having even this moment, when it will only make everything more complicated. Perhaps he should’ve let her keep thinking he doesn’t care much for her, that he wants nothing to do with the power they share. 

***

She doesn’t seem to be angry at him the next morning at least, though she does shoot him a questioning look he only answers with a shrug, and that seems to be enough for her. Perhaps she thought he wasn’t comfortable being shut-in, such close quarters with them, because after breakfast, Romeo goes to show him the garden. 

He’s not sure he’s thrilled, climbing down another steep, narrow flight of stairs right after Romeo, feeling his warmth close to him, but he quickly forgets when they arrive. It’s another underground room, narrow and low but lit-brightly, where the plants grow in containers of water, rather than soil. Tybalt spends a while staring at it, even after he realizes Romeo has left quietly. Despite the brightness, the stifled air, he finds it quite relaxing. This far down, you cannot even hear the storm. And it’s a very different kind of growing from Verona. He thinks that perhaps, he used to take it for granted. 

And yet, as much of a comfort as it starts out being, it is the garden which ultimately brings his downfall. He’s lost count of days now, but it might be the fourth, or the fifth, when they harvest strange prickly fruit from it, with needle-sharp spines and soft pink flesh on the inside, and make a pie with vacuum-packaged flour from the pantry and strange-smelling butter.

It’s wonderful and somehow, it’s torture. Romeo is up to his elbows in flour, Julia has smears of dough on her cheeks, and they’re laughing together, over not much in particular. Tybalt peels the cacti, a somewhat thankless task he volunteered for, stained hands stinging all over from tiny pinpricks — but a sharp thing in his hand, he at least understands. But then, looking over, he finds their lips stained pink as well, from stealing slices. Romeo steals a kiss from Julia, bending down to her, leaving a pink smear on her cheek where he cups it with his hand, and suddenly Tybalt feels his blood run hot, feels a breath caught in his chest—

This time, he pricks deeply. He hisses at the blood welling up, at the sharp pain of the spine lodged deep in his finger, and turns to try and conceal it – but they notice, rush up to him, Romeo attempts to dislodge it, while Julia runs for a medical kit, and Tybalt doesn’t understand the fuss. It took an entire day for him to heal from the duel wounds, even with the best technology Verona had to offer. But he is grateful to be distracted, not having to think about just what he was feeling right there, and grateful they think his perturbation is for pain, not for their closeness. Grateful they leave him, after. 

Later, when the pie is baked, slightly burned, and long-eaten, everything tilts into place; his inability to let Julia go, tilt her image back to something familial, childish; the way his body reacts to Romeo almost instinctively, drawn towards him like in a magnetic field — they didn’t cancel each other out. They laid over each other, overlapping, increasing instead, becoming another problem he certainly cannot use. 

He hadn’t thought of the two of them before, being intimate — for all his angry thoughts, that’s a place he never went. He’s listened for it certainly, unwittingly — out of some kind of indignation, maybe, still feeling like it was his duty to stand guard, but at night, in the bed, everything had been quiet. On this evening though, when he comes down to the bedroom earlier and hears muffled giggles, hissed breathes from the fresher, he doesn’t feel anger. Instead, a zap of arousal moves through him, and he almost expected it. He walks back upstairs, sits in the kitchen alone, until Romeo comes to warn him about the power shutting down for the night. 

It only builds, until he’s lying in bed, too high strung to sleep. The bed is large enough that they’ve never unwittingly touched each other, not even in their sleep, but someone turns, something brushes him, likely just the corner of a blanket, but it’s the last drop. He tip-toes to the fresher, praying the sounds of the ventilation system won’t be loud enough to wake them, presses his hand to his aching prick mindlessly, almost moaning out loud at the pressure, before snatching his hands away, pacing the length of the room, nails pressing crescents into his palm, then biting down on the coarse fabric of his sleeve. He wastes some water to run it over his wrists, cold, doubles over to press his cheek against the cold metal of the sink, panting too loudly, and stays like this for a while, until he slinks back to bed, aching and disturbed. He prays for the storm to stop. 

***

He avoids them, the next day, even if there aren't many places to go of course. Yet sensing his disturbance, they leave him alone, retreat to the bedroom right after breakfast, though not without some concerned looks. He sits in the kitchen, watches the storm again.

Later on his way downstairs, Tybalt hears dim voices, murmurs from the bedroom — and suddenly he knows they’re talking about him, without hearing a single word. He stalks off, blood pounding in his head, flees to the garden again. The moisture makes it hard to breathe, gets him to sweat, but there’s something healing about it, and in the quiet of it, he attempts to unravel the terrifying thought that this has never happened before. His communicator is still out of order; he plays with it, flips it open and closed. He’s not been very good at thinking recently, not at all. He tries, trying to make the confusion in his head make sense. 

A first fact: He could not kill Romeo. Not even that very first night. And he will not now, either.  
Another fact: Romeo looks at Julia like he needs no other. And she is happy with him. (Tybalt takes all tension, the looks, the strangeness, and crumples them up, shoves them deep down, into that place deep inside of him where he keeps everything that is his fault)  
Another, terrifying, fact: Julia’s presence is developing Tybalt’s sense of the Force —and he’ll give her that. Maybe it will even help protect her. Maybe she will make the best of it. It’s too late to stop it anyway. But not for him. He has duties. He can’t—

One last fact: The storm is beginning to quiet down. 

Tybalt has never been the adventurous one. Even when he was foolish enough to think her sheltered, Julia liked the stars. Nurse would say she started stretching her hands out towards the sky almost as soon as she was born; and later, she would sneak away and lay on the grass and stare up into the sky; she’d tell him later that it made her feel like she was falling towards it. Tybalt has always preferred earth under his feet, though the lush greenness of Verona seems like a faraway dream world right now. And he imagines returning — lying, facing his family’s questioning, disappointment— returning to a Verona without them. He chokes on the emptiness he imagines, even just for the two of them. And yet, the truth of the matter is, he will have time to think of something after. He simply knows he needs to leave now, as soon as possible. He cannot spend another night here. He has to leave, before he can ruin everything, while they both still seem to like him for some strange reason, even though he doesn’t deserve it at all. He’d rather keep the memory. 

He doesn’t have much to pack. He’d found his blaster in a wardrobe, one of these last days, and put it in a satchel. After all, a weapon was never a bad thing to have. He waits in the garden, among the plants, one last time, the satchel concealed behind a pot and when Romeo sticks his head in the door, as is almost routine now, to warn him of the time, he nods as if he’d just lost track of it. After waiting until they’re likely to be in the fresher, he creeps down the hallway, towards the stairs — and he would have made it, even though he’d miscalculated and they weren’t in the fresher at all, though the door was open a crack, with light spilling out. They might not have noticed, if it hadn’t made him stop unwittingly, seeing their shadowy figures dressing for bed. He feels a pang of pain and want; and he couldn’t help but want to commit a last look to his memory— 

And then Julia turns. Tybalt flinches back into the shadows.

“Cousin?” 

Everything in him goes weak, part of him longing to follow wherever that voice calls, the other screaming that it’s impossible to go back to that bed, and the two of them in it, the torture of impossible dreams, the feelings, their scents mixing, he can’t—

He drops the satchel right outside the door. After a few strides, he stops stupidly, remembering that he meant to leave, that he’s dressed for outside, that there’s no point. It’s Julia who approaches him first, a kind of knowing look about her, and Tybalt braces for questioning, racing thoughts refusing to make up a good excuse, but she doesn’t speak. Instead, she stretches her arm out and glides her fingers along his chest. The clasps undo themselves; his jacket falls open, and he reads it as harmless teasing first— but her hand lingers. Lightly, just three fingertips on his chest. And he feels every single one like a brand. 

Tybalt steps back, bewildered— but bumps into something warm, solid behind him; Romeo sneaks his arms around his waist, palm flat against his stomach 

“Please, do you-“ Romeo breathes against the side of his face, and it would take no motion at all, to turn towards him, and Tybalt feels mad, maddened by days and nights of longing, laughter, stolen looks, pushed up shirtsleeves, mouths smeared pink— His and Romeo’s mouths meet in a clash of tongue and teeth, a painful moan ripped from his throat. He remembers himself almost immediately, but when he turns in horror, Julia is looking up at him, both blush and a small smile spreading on her face, and then she gets up on tip-toes and smoothes his hair back, her hands aren’t quite as soft as he would’ve expected. The sudden contact takes his breath away, he shudders, and she laughs, presses forward into a kiss that’s more of a shared gasp than anything. Tybalt feels his knees almost buckle, but Romeo’s holding him. Julia steps back, but not too far, hands still cupping his face. Tybalt can do nothing but stare, hearing only the blood rush in his head, deafening white noise; voice screaming that it’s impossible; this is one of those strange dreams— A hand caresses down his arm firmly. 

“You are welcome,” Romeo echoes quietly, “in our bed.”

Tybalt sobs.

*** 

He’s taken many people to bed, but it’s the first time he feels the tables have been turned on him. And he asks, he has to, before they quite make it to the bed, confused questions of how and why.

“You project more than you think,” Julia says, smiling like she’s teasing again, and he can’t help grimacing, turning away, muttering that he doesn’t need their pity, but Julia catches him, not as softly this time, fingers pressing into his forearms insistently — “No, don’t- Romeo told me about you. The two of you. I don’t mind. I—” He looks at her then, really looks, shining eyes, blush spreading, chest heaving, and realizes she wants, too. He had never considered that before.

Tybalt’s thoughts are racing, but he decides to let them go. It’s all too easy, anyway, when his body is pulling him towards what he’s wanted, needed, all on its own. And him and Romeo know each other already — but what he wants from Romeo seems far removed from anything he could barely dare to hope to get from Julia, sharp heated fucking opposite clumsy gentleness. It works, somehow. The sheets are coarse and Julia presses close and kisses him again, with no space and nowhere to go, insistently, and like she can sense he’s scared to touch her, she whispers “I’m not made of glass” against his lips. Clumsily, maybe, he grabs for her waist, and she flinches away with a sound. He snatches his hands back, stricken, heart falling, and Romeo grips at his elbow, but Julia catches Tybalt’s hands, lacing their fingers together.

“Oh no, it’s just, I’m ticklish there, remember?” she says, like she’s trying to reassure them both, him and Romeo. Tybalt doesn’t, and he feels like he has to apologize, for something, for slipping away, putting barriers between them— She pulls his hands back towards her, but guides them higher this time, onto her breasts and he barely dares breathe as he cups them, feels the warmth under fabric so thin he can feel the goosebumps spreading even through it. She breathes out softly, head falling back. He tries to stay still, though he can’t help but shudder when Romeo starts kissing his neck, hand still on his elbow like he’s reining him in. Tybalt appreciates it. In this moment, where everything is falling over itself, he appreciates something steadying him. 

Romeo takes him in hand then, slowly, tightly and Tybalt doesn’t last. He couldn’t have, he’s been electrified for days, spends across Romeo’s fist after a handful of strokes, barely daring to look at Julia who he couldn’t even begin to pretend is an observer, she’s too curious, too close, and she kisses him again, a soft press of lips, while he’s barely stopped coming, when he’s still gasping into her mouth. _She’s not innocent_ is one of the last passably clear thoughts he has that night, though he also thinks perhaps she never has been. And he’s not sure it matters, anyway.

Julia pulls her night shirt over her head; she kisses Romeo while Tybalt’s pushing his hand into Romeo’s trousers, and when they kiss, not like they have in front of him before, but deeper, messier, he slips down, takes Romeo’s prick in his mouth desperately, something he didn’t know he was hungry for, gets lost in it until Romeo nudges him, pulls him up again. He’d been touching Julia, her limbs sweat-slicked already, blush blotching down her torso, and then Romeo slips his fingers back between her legs with a wet sound — and Tybalt balks, somewhat, a little too much too soon. Withdraws to watch them, practised already, moving together fluidly, and marvels that his desires ended up resulting in no contradiction at all. 

He ends up lying beside them, as Romeo disappears between Julia’s thighs, nips at the inside of her thigh and makes her laugh. She pushes a hand into Romeo’s hair, and turns to look at Tybalt, eyes dark but crinkling with laughter. Tybalt inches closer, barely touching at first, and then puts his hand on her chest, where the light is pooling in the dip between her breasts, feeling her arch against his hand, her heartbeat accelerating against his palm. 

***

Tybalt wakes with a start. He jerks upward, overwhelmed by memories, thoughts racing. Romeo, asleep, still has an arm around his waist. On his other side, Julia stirs, and finally props herself up with one elbow, gives him a small, tired smile. He reflexively averts his gaze from her nudity and then chides himself. He’s not coward enough to not be able to face what he’s done. 

Julia studies him for a moment, then nudges him with her thoughts. And maybe the strange morning hour or the warmth of their bodies caught him off guard — or maybe things are simply different now, but Tybalt...Tybalt lets go. It’s nothing in particular, not comprehensive, just feelings, some pieces of something maybe, anxieties. He doesn’t have too much control over it either way; trying to actively use the Force feels like speaking a language he doesn’t know. Julia’s eyes widen, she winces a little from the impact of it, and Tybalt already regrets it, but she feels that too. She puts a hand on his then to still him, while she blinks, taking it in. The look she gives him then is quite serious and she leans up to kiss his forehead, a firm press of lips, and then his lips, more gently, in a way he can’t believe he could ever get used to. But he feels that maybe, she understood something. He thinks he has, too. 

*** 

The next time Tybalt wakes up, he’s alone again, but there’s a cup of caf on the bedside table. And something is different in the air, It takes him a moment to realize it’s the quietness. The storm is over. 

Upstairs, the kitchen is empty and the doors are open. Romeo and Julia are sitting in the yard again, at the big table, messy hair and tired eyes, but this time when they notice him, no one startles. Julia smiles lightly. Romeo nods at some of the other doors, blocked with sand, and says, “We should take care of those later,” pushing a cup of caf into his hands. 

Tybalt takes a deep breath. 

“I will vouch for you, in Verona. I will sort it out. You will have peace.” Promises he's not sure he can keep. But might die trying. 

But a look passes between them and Romeo says, carefully, “We weren’t going to go back.”

“Oh.” Tybalt sits heavily. He isn’t sure why he’s never properly considered that. Despite the dangers he knows about, he was always sure they would end up home sooner than later. 

“For now, anyway. We were going to—” Romeo starts again, breaks off, glances cautiously at Julia, who leans towards Tybalt, eyes gleaming and covers his hands with hers.

“Masters of the Force,” she whispers excitedly, “I’ve heard they still exist.”

Tybalt feels himself go cold all over. The shady characters he’d been scared to find Julia with have nothing on this. Imperial treason. His first instinct is to protect her, from herself if necessary and something in him is screaming that it’s not too late, to set everything right. But he’s— he’s not sure he understands what “right” is, anymore. And Romeo just looks at Julia warmly, like he'd go along with any insane plan she has, and Tybalt almost has to laugh at the strange fondness he’s feeling. He was raised to follow, to serve his house. That is all he’s known, for all his life, really. But Julia _is_ of his house. And now, Romeo is his kinsman as well. 

“Sounds like a plan that could use a blaster and a good shot,” he says, then immediately cringes at the reminder, but Julia presses a kiss to the side of his mouth, and Romeo slips a warm hand down his back and under his shirt. Tybalt feels a little light-headed again, and probably looks it too, because Romeo laughs. _I love you more than you know_ , Tybalt remembers again, but this time, he thinks he might hear something else in it.


End file.
